by Jill Jones
“Shhh,” he said, looking around as if worried that someone might see them, although only the two of them, and the boy, remained in the tiny quarters. He opened the box, and Taylor was dumbfounded to see that it was a well-equipped medical kit.
“Where did you get that?”
“Last night, after I brought Pauley back, I went to the Intrepid, and…”
“You did what? How…?”
“Would you shut up?” Duncan looked at her in exasperation. “I went by sea,” he said, as if it made all the sense in the world for him to go out in a boat with the wind whipping wildly and rain pouring in sheets of sleet and ice. “I took the tender and rowed there in the cover of darkness.”
“But…that’s a long way. What if Cromwell’s patrol…?”
Duncan gave her a quick grin. “Do you really think those fellows, who have no more wish to be here than we, would actually put to sea in a storm like that?”
“No,” she replied with a quavering smile, half angry with him for taking such a chance, half delighted at this explanation for his mysterious disappearance. “Only a crazy Scotsman would do something like that.”
She watched him sort through the contents of the kit. There were vials and bandages and splints and little bottles with labels on them. At last he found what he sought…a syringe. Expertly, he removed a sterilized needle from its protective paper and attached it to the syringe. “Burn the packaging,” he instructed her. “And you must hide this case and mention it to no one. If these people find it, you’ll be a witch for sure.”
He filled the syringe with a liquid from one of the bottles, then gently rolled Pauley over, wiped a spot on his little buttocks with alcohol, and administered the shot. “Antibiotics,” he said. “If he has an infection, this should get him on the road to recovery. I suspect he’s been carrying a low-grade condition for a while. I wanted to go for this sooner, but didn’t have the opportunity…or the emergency.”
The man continued to amaze Taylor. “Are you a doctor, too?”
Duncan gave a short laugh and disassembled the syringe. “Hardly. But they train you pretty well for the Institute. Sort of like paramedics. Now, let me show you what’s in this bag of tricks…”
Holyrood Palace
21 January 1567
We are recently returned from a harsh but necessary trip to Glasgow to bring our husband back to Edinburgh. He has suffered another bout with the pox, the roniole, not the small pox, and is in need of an extended and undisturbed period of recovery. We did not recall him out of love nor any wish to be near his person, which we find vile and contemptible, especially in its present state. Rather, we made this move upon the advice of Maitland, who wisely pointed out that it was safer for us to have Darnley where he is more easily controlled than loose in Lennox country where he might plot against us. The fool is easy to persuade, as we discovered after Riccio’s murder. A soft word, a kind invitation, an intimation that he is to be returned to favor at court, and he was eager to leave his self-imposed exile.
By his own choice, he is now lodged in the old provost’s house at Kirk o’ Field, where he will abide until he is recovered enough to return to Holyrood. We shall maintain visitation quarters in a chamber directly beneath his, although we are anxious to learn of any progress that may have been made in our absence concerning a divorce.
The history book dated Darnley’s murder at Kirk o’ Field in mid-February, and Robert Gordon eagerly turned to a page dated the eleventh.
Holyrood Palace
1l February 1567
We are both horrified and shocked at the conspiracy that was worked before our very nose to kill Darnley. We never dreamed when Maitland said he would find other means than a divorce to be rid of him, that he was referring to murder. We are doubly shocked because we believe that the lords who spoke of divorce to us at Craigmillar sought to murder us as well. We have learned the old provost’s house was filled with gunpowder the very night we last visited Darnley, and had we not left to attend the masque in honor of Bastion’s wedding, we would have died in the explosion along with our husband.
We have heard rumor that many of our grand lords, including Moray and Bothwell, were not only involved, but designed the very plot among them. With such as these we fear for our life, the life of our child, indeed, the life of Scotland. As we sit at table to write these words, we see by our candle’s glow the battered but still lovely Scottish Rose, and we despair of it ever joining with the Honours of Scotland. What hope is there for peace and unity, when rogues such as these murderers dare to kill a king and nearly so an annointed queen? What reason is there to hope, what reason any longer to care?
Later in the day, Duncan carried the boy to the new quarters he and Taylor would share in the Ogilvy’s household. She’d wanted to come along, but he’d asked her to wait for him in their own room. Pauley was better already, and he seemed soothed to find his adoptive “parents” back on terms, even if they were strained.
Although Duncan still wished he could convince the governor this voyage was unnecessary, during his long night in the row boat, he had decided unequivocally he would go if Ogilvy insisted. He’d been wrong to entertain the idea of staying at Dunnottar, even if Taylor was pregnant. He’d volunteered in the beginning to be the ship’s captain, and it was what had secured his place, and Taylor’s, in the upper order of the castle where they had lived in relative safety and comfort. He owed it to the governor to obey his command.
And pregnant or not, Taylor had proven she was most capable of taking care of herself and Pauley. He still hated to leave her, but he felt a little better knowing she now had some medical ammunition against Pauley’s ill health. He was concerned most, however, about the on-going threat from Kenneth and the villagers. He’d heard their open taunts, and even though he’d warned his “kinsman” to back off, he knew the minute he set foot on board the ship, Taylor was at a greater risk than before.
He had spoken at length about his fears to Governor Ogilvy, who had assured him he would take personal responsibility for their safety in Duncan’s absence, and he was greatly relieved to learn that Taylor and Pauley were being brought into the main residence. They were safer there than they ever had been in the guest quarters, and under the watchful eye of the Governor, Duncan was certain they were as protected as they could possibly be under the circumstances.
With Pauley comfortably tucked in and Elizabeth Ogilvy hovering over him like a benevolent mother hen, Duncan turned to the last of his affairs that needed settling before he set sail for France.
Taylor.
He couldn’t leave without making up with her. Even though he didn’t understand why she had reacted so vehemently to his concern about her being pregnant, he knew that for all her bravado, she was likely filled with fear. He didn’t blame her for being afraid. Hell, he was afraid. Who wouldn’t be afraid in this insane set of circumstances?
He wished he could rescue them both from their fears, but since that was an impossibility, he would have to settle, hopefully, for reconciliation. He still didn’t know if she was pregnant, but he wasn’t about to ask again. He reached the door to the quarters they had shared for the last four months, and as he’d made a practice of for all that time, he knocked before entering.
Taylor’s heart leapt at the familiar rap at the door. After Duncan had left with Pauley, she’d quickly washed up, brushed her hair, and changed into a fresher frock. He had asked her to wait here for him, and there was a command in his voice she did not question. Either he wanted to apologize or ream her out, she wasn’t sure which, not that she cared, for she felt she deserved both. But she needed a chance to set things straight between them.
“Come in.”
He filled the doorway with pure male power, and his eyes were fierce when they met hers. Good God, now that Pauley was out of the way, was he going to pick up their fight where they had left off? Taylor’s stomach cramped. He slammed the door behind him, the vibrations sending the latch sliding down into place
and a shiver down her spine. Without speaking he strode across the small room, dropping his heavy, snow-covered mantle to the floor behind him. Before she could utter a word, he flung his arms about her, drawing her into a forceful embrace, and his lips seared hers in a kiss that melted away her doubts and fears. His face was bearded now, the scratch of it rough against her chin, and yet she pressed against him, threading her fingers through his hair, bringing him closer, and still wanting more. He smelled of winter air and wood smoke. Of man.
His embrace communicated all that she needed from him. His strength surrounded her with courage, his tenderness enveloped her in forgiveness.
“Forgive me,” she heard him whisper into her hair.
“Forgive me,” she replied.
His lips returned to hers in a renewed assault that bespoke of his pain and fear, his passion and torment. Taylor knew he did not want to leave her. She knew, too, the kind of man he was, dedicated to principle and utterly loyal. Her earlier anger at him for leaving shifted to admiration, and she allowed her heart to fill with the love she’d given no other man.
“Make love to me, Duncan,” she murmured, running the palms of her hands over his broad chest, feeling the strength of his muscles, the heavy beat of his heart.
Cupping her face in his hands, he looked into her eyes. “I want you,” he said raggedly. “God knows how I want you, Taylor.”
He was torn, she could see, and she didn’t understand why. They had forgiven each other. The door behind them was locked. Nothing stood between them but their clothing. Which she began to remove with deft fingers. She started with his belt buckle, and then the buttons to the rough breeches that had replaced his modern clothes through the kindness of the governor.
“Oh, my God, Taylor, what you’re doing to me…,” was all he said before he picked her up in his powerful arms and carried her to their bed. Tonight, she thought briefly as they frantically raced to remove the remainder of their clothing, she would love him as if they were the husband and wife they pretended to be.
But secretly, in her heart.
They would not talk about marriage, or children. Not tonight. He didn’t need to know about all that. Not now. He might never return, and it wouldn’t matter anyway. She did not want to waste the few precious hours they had before he was to leave.
For if he never came back, at least she would have the memory of tonight. A treasured memory of how, once upon a time, she had cherished a man as a woman cherishes a beloved husband. She had not thought herself capable or desirous of these feelings that now filled her with greater happiness and serenity than she’d ever known. If nothing more ever came of their time together, she would have this to remember.
Chapter Nineteen
The small chapel seemed to shiver beneath the winter winds that blasted through the cracks between the rough window sills and the ancient rock walls. Taylor had once considered prayer just another superstitious practice, but when Mrs. Ogilvy had suggested that they pray together for the safety of Duncan’s ship and crew, and the success of their endeavor, she eagerly joined her employer on her knees on the stone floor of the chapel. When they were done, the two women embraced tearfully.
“I know this is hard on ye,” Mrs. Ogilvy said, her voice soothing and filled with understanding. “But ye must be proud of thy husband. He is a brave and honorable man. With God’s grace, we’ll see him again ere th’ spring comes.”
Spring. It seemed so far away to Taylor on this dreary December day. It was the winter solstice, the darkest night of the year, and Taylor’s mood reflected the earth’s barren sorrow. “I beg a favor, madam,” she asked, wanting some time alone to gather her energies to face this bleak time without Duncan. “I…I would like to set our chamber straight. Perhaps you would wish to offer it to some other family during Mr. Fraser’s absence. Its fire is quite welcome on these nights.”
Mrs. Ogilvy took her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “I understand. Go. I will care for Pauley and take up the matter of the chamber with my husband.”
Taylor curtsied and hurried out of the front of the chapel. She darted a furtive glance toward the kitchen house but saw no sign of Greta. The weather was still foul, although the rain and snow had let up.
Inside the small quarters, she closed the door and leaned against it, at last letting her tears flow. She had held them bravely in check for many long hours, through her quarrel with Duncan, Pauley’s crisis, even her last farewell to the man who had loved her so tenderly and passionately there upon that bed. Oh, God, why had she ever gotten them into this mess?
She threw her kerchief across the room. Damn, damn, damn!
She jerked the bedclothes away from the rude mattress, thinking to launder them straightaway, but instead of throwing them aside in a pile, she held them against her and smelled the scent of man and woman, together in love. Her control slipped further, and she sank to the floor.
She should never have allowed those thoughts to enter her mind late last night when Duncan had come to her. Those thoughts of marriage beds and husbands. For it made the cold reality of this morning even more cruel. She had no husband. No marriage bed. And the only man she had ever loved, maybe ever would love, was gone, and she despaired of his return.
Taylor sat motionless for a long time, her mind and heart weary from the effort of fighting tears, of being brave. But she was brave, and she knew she must continue to be brave, if not for her own sake, then at least for Pauley’s. And maybe prayers got answered. Maybe Duncan would somehow miraculously return in that rat-infested, dry-rot mottled sailing ship. She sniffed, then straightened and went to put some more wood on the fire.
She was consoled by only one thing. Whether Duncan came back or not, she he had given her a gift before he left, even though he didn’t know it. It was nothing tangible. No diamond ring. No golden band. No promise of all his tomorrows. But something even more precious…a moment in time, when she had become not Taylor Kincaid, television star, or Taylor Kincaid, dauntless career woman, or even Taylor Kincaid, freak of nature. Just Taylor Kincaid.
Woman.
Three days into the voyage, the weather finally relented enough that John Keith managed to come out of his cabin and join Captain Fraser on deck. Duncan eyed him, feeling both sorry for his acute attack of mal de mer and a little amused at the way nature had reduced him from a swaggering would-be hero to a cowering lump of flesh.
It wasn’t that Duncan didn’t like John Keith. He just hadn’t cared for the man’s braggadocio just before they’d left. Keith was convinced that he was going to France to save the day, and his older brother, the Earl Marischal, would be forever in his debt because of it. With some concentration, Duncan had finally recalled from history that John Keith succeeded in doing nothing of the sort. Instead, he fumbled and faltered at every turn along his way, losing all his money to bandits and ending up in Paris very late, coming before King Charles poverty-stricken and embarrassed.
Duncan did not, however, tell him that at the moment.
Nor did he tell him yet that they had been blown severely off course, and that landfall would likely be somewhere in the Low Countries, not France.
Which, after he’d taken his last bearings using a crude sextant that he’d found on board, he’d remembered as happening in history as well.
Everything was going just as he recalled from the history books. And for some reason, he and Taylor seemed to have been swept into this distant past, not merely as accidental tourists, but rather as active players in the scenario. He groped to make some sense of it all.
How could they enter the picture from the future and take part in events in the past? And if either of them did anything that was contrary to recorded history, how would it affect everything else that followed? Was it possible, desirable, or dangerous to change history?
These and similar disquietening thoughts had taken hold of Duncan in the dark of night, during his lonely watches when the wind and waves threatened to wash him and his fellow sailors
into the treacherous sea. Yet as baffling as they were, they served to take his mind off other equally disturbing thoughts.
Like his desire for a woman that kept leading him to make mistakes, such as making love to her again the night before he left. Wild horses could not have kept them apart, and she’d wanted him as well, but before his passion had completely obliterated all reason, he would have given the Honours of Scotland for a condom.
He must return to Dunnottar Castle and take Taylor and Pauley away safely and without delay. Back in their own day, maybe he and Taylor could sort out their feelings for each other and make decisions about their future, or non-future, based upon rational thinking and the relative safety of their modern civilization. If she wanted children, he would consider it, but only in a place and time where competent medical professionals were immediately available.
After this voyage, he would have fulfilled his obligation to Governor Ogilvy, and to history, he supposed, since somebody had to be the captain on this trip. He wondered idly, if he hadn’t taken responsibility for this journey, who would have? There was no one else in the castle who was qualified to sail the derelict vessel. Was that the reason he had been thrown back in time, to perform this specific duty for his native Scotland? Was it himself he’d always read about in those history books?
Ridiculous.
But it was even more ridiculous to try to answer such preposterous, insane questions, so he focused instead on the most important issues facing him right now.
Staying alive and returning to Taylor.
Almost two months had passed since Duncan’s ship had sailed, and there had been no word of him, or John Keith, or rescue from the king. At last, in desperation, Governor Ogilvy managed to locate and dispatch another captain to complete Duncan’s mission, which all in the castle but Taylor believed to have ended in tragedy.
Taylor lingered at the window overlooking the North Sea, as she did so many of her long, idle days, waiting, watching for, believing in Duncan’s return.
